A Life Long Forgotten
by xXRochiRyuzakiXx
Summary: Pitch Black begins to remember his previous identity while sulking and recovering from his defeat by the Guardians.
1. He Fears His Dreams

**[Author's Notes: **This is being uploaded out of peer pressure, so I apologize now for any issues it may have. It started as a study of my headcanon!Pitch and turned into...this. The chapters will be short. Sorry for that. Also, it takes place after the events of RoTG and borrows heavily from The Guardians of Childhood series. I feel I should also mention that it's definitely inspired by _Lindzzz_'s Things That Were on Archive Of Our Own. I apologize now for any similarities between the two.  
Okay, that should be it.  
I hope you enjoy! Reviews are always welcome, but flames will be removed.**]**

* * *

Pitch Black did not dream.

Well, more accurately, he refused to. He stayed awake at all hours of every day, spending the sunlit halves sulking in the darkest corners of the dank cave he'd come to call home, glaring out at the dimly lit craggy walls. It wasn't that he couldn't find sleep, or that its call wasn't appealing to him. It was the dreams that it brought that drove him away from slumber's sweet embrace. The few times he had succumbed to unconsciousness in the millenium he could remember, the images that played across his eyelids had filled him with such...torment. He couldn't explain it. It was a sadness and an anger and a longing and a fear. The emotions didn't surprise him; he felt them rather regularly (sadness for his solitude, anger at his opposers, longing for recognition, and fear of disappearance), but the dreams themselves confused him to no end.

They were always the same: A small cluster of glittering butterflies that he would chase relentlessly through the impenetrable blackness. That was it. A few golden skippers just out of reach, their tiny graceful wings roaring in the maddening silence. On rare occasions, another sound joined the rhythmic flapping; the call of a young girl, a soft cry of "daddy". A voice he knew but didn't know why. It would wake the Boogeyman with a start and leave him shaking with a heartache he couldn't explain.

It made him uneasy, as if his skin didn't fit right; like it had shrunk during his sleeping spell. The protruding angles of his face seemed sharper, the hollows deeper, the hair jagged, uneven teeth that lined his jaws felt more out of place than normal, and their points were painful to the touch. He felt wrong. It infuriated him. He would tear out of his imprisonment and bring a batch of unusually horrid dreams to any children he could. Only after he had efficiently pulled sobs and screams from those young lips did Pitch feel like himself; dark and terrifying, dangerous and cocky. He could stand that. It put balance back in his feet and slowed his racing heart.

He could no longer do that, though. Ever since his humiliating defeat by his own creations, he spent even more time buried deep in his caverns. Bringing attention to himself would only make that hot, angry embarrassment new and fresh again. He couldn't afford to go about shattering Sanderson's dreams without risking his own dignity. So underground he stayed, hissing at the small trickle of sunlight that seeped into his abode as if it had personally offended him. And he stayed awake for fear of the butterflies and the little girl and the skin that didn't fit.


	2. He Lives In A Cage

**[Author's Notes: **This one's a bit better and a bit longer. ^ ^ From this chapter on it turns into a sort of sister fic with _TheeMaddHattter_'s Life Can Start Anew. Go check it out. :3 It's super fab~ I'll put a link at the bottom.  
Also, this chapter was inspired by a piece of art I saw on tumblr.  
Again, I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing. Reviews are welcome, as always.**]**

* * *

It was a quarter after midnight when the Nightmare King dragged himself from the stifling depths of the shadows that swallowed every corner of his caverns, and stepped into the sliver of moonlight that illuminated the globe in the center. Millions of tiny golden lights shined brightly on the stone surface, marking every child whose belief in the Guardians held strong and true. Just as they had the day before; just as the would the day after.

A dark sneer contorted his thin face, deepening the frown lines that marred his taut, greyed skin and the crease between his bare brows. He made a slow trek around the structure, his palladium eyes narrowed and studious as they scanned the lit continents, feet silent on the rocky floor despite his furious gait. He came to a stop in the spot where he had started and folded his slender arms. A sound akin to the distant roar of hooves against hardened earth emanated from somewhere deep within his chest. It worked itself into a feral snarl with the quality of splintering bone that spilled from his thin lips like blood. Bared, misaligned teeth gleamed in the silver radiance, and their owner had to turn his back on the offending earthly skeleton. Pitch inhaled slowly, attempting to keep his rage at bay. The air was thick and humid, stagnant from its subground prison and damp from the water that seeped through the cracks and crevices in the walls. It smelled of soil and rain, and it put Pitch's nerves at ease.

His attention moved from the seemingly endless expanse of crooked stairs and lopsided bridges up to the moon, which he could barely see through the break in the rock. Where was his fame? His glory? His legends and tales? He felt entitled to something (he always had); a name that would never be laughed at. Why did that band of self-righteous "heroes" (that title had always infuriated him) deserve all they had? Fear was a power humanity had always known. What right did the Guardians have to destroy what might as well have been a force of nature?

The Boogeyman heaved a sigh and stepped back into the shade, melting into the blackness and reappearing on the outside of one of the many ominous and abstract cages suspended from the ceiling. It swung gently with his weight, and he moved to pull open the latch and clamber inside without anything more than a slight metallic groan and a soft flutter of fabric. It was an unusual place to sit and think, he had to admit, but it brought him the most peace of mind. He settled in against the cold metal, leaving the tail of his robe and one lanky leg to hang in the heavy atmosphere.

Was this what his life as a spirit had been reduced to? Pacing restlessly around a cave and occupying crates for comfort? Cursing and screaming about his foes at all hours, but never facing off with them? Licking his wounds and hiding from his own thoughts? He felt that there were answers in that cluster of butterflies that flitted about his mind, but he feared what he would find. That was the worst part. He was Pitch Black; The Boogeyman; The Nightmare King; a spirit of darkness and fear since the birth of man itself. What did he have to be afraid of?

He shook his head, ignoring his aching joints and shaking hands. Perhaps sleep was not so bad. Perhaps he could get to the bottom of this nameless fear. He leaned back against the woven wire and let his tired eyes fall shut, their lustre disappearing into the dark of the circles that lay above his cheekbones and blended with his sunken sockets. The deafening silence of his home filled with the song of a thousand tiny wings as he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

**[**_TheeMaddHattter's_ Sandy POV fic: Life Can Start Anew - www. fanfiction s/9551094/1/Life-Can-Start-Anew (+ "dot net forward slash" after "fanfiction" and remove the spaces)**]**


	3. He Remembers Her Eyes

**[Author's Notes: **Hello again! This chapter was a joy to write. ^ ^ Prepare yourselves for some Pitchiner family feels. ono  
As always, enjoy, dear readers~ Reviews are welcome.**]**

* * *

It was dark. That was all he knew while he walked along his dreamscape. Darker than the space between the stars. How funny it sounded; for there was nothing darker than the matterless abyss that separated stars and planets and galaxies. He was the darkest there was, yet somehow his mind had produced something more than pitch black. That was also funny. His name, a thing that he couldn't recall receiving, was exactly what he was and represented. Any other spirit he had met in his millenia had actual names; names that were not uncommon, but not given to inanimate substances. But he was not there to contemplate the strangeness of his own name.

A sudden flutter of wings rushed past his right ear, making him stop in his tracks. He could do no more than stare as the insects passed him, their flight patterns mingling and weaving with each other. A small shape burst forth from the darkness beside him, dashing towards the creatures on bare feet and scrawny legs that appeared beneath emerald cloth gathered in tiny hands. They were much like his own, those hands; angular and bony, fingers a tad too long and adorned with deep-set nails that extended to the very tip of each phalange. The figure had run twenty yards ahead of him when it stopped and slowly (everything there seemed too slow, as if each second was actually five) glanced over a thin shoulder. Piercing bondi blue eyes met his, a light that was not there illuminating their surface. They sat beneath two elegant ebon brows and on either side of a long, pinched nose. She (the apparition was most certainly female) had small cupid's bow lips set in a wide, bright smile, and a jaw that seemed both rounded and sharp. Her high, defined cheekbones were framed with a cascade of wild raven hair that hung like ivy about her shoulders and waist. The moment seemed to stretch on for hours, of this small girl staring at him with such warmth and glee. When she finally turned away, a high birdsong of a laugh rang out into the nothingness and the mirage dissipated with its echo.

The distant call of a hermit thrush brought Pitch back to consciousness. His heart was racing a mile a minute and his breathing came in short staccato gasps. The metal around him groaned quietly as it swung, having moved with his sudden wake. He took a moment to calm himself before pushing out of the cage and landing softly on a bridge below. His eyes flashed up to the break in the ceiling; a rich orange glow came in from the pink-streaked sky. It was early evening. He had slept at least eighteen hours. He couldn't remember the last time he had slipped under for anything longer than thirty minutes.

The expected wrongness of his body flooded back to him; the sudden sense that he had spent too much time away from the sun, too much time without interaction, too much time being...not himself. It was an odd sensation, seeing as everything he was looked the same. As he saw it, he had never changed. Perhaps he was a bit more paranoid these days, but... Actually, if he really thought about it, he couldn't remember much of his time before humankind. Maybe a quick flash of blood or screams or cries... And a word? "Cause?" He shook his head. That made no sense.

Then it suddenly clicked. The correction appeared in his mind like it had been there all along, patient, just waiting to be noticed.

"Koz."


	4. He Lays Blame

**[Author's Notes: **Many apologies for the shortness of this one and the lack of congruence with _TheeMaddHattter_'s most recent chapter. We'll be co-writing the next one to avoid that. Also, I would like to inform everyone that chapters will likely be uploaded once a week, give or take a few days.  
Without further ado, Chapter 4. :) Enjoy~**]**

As the days passed, the Boogeyman considered the strangeness of his new discoveries. The young girl and the mysterious "Koz" seeped into his mind like a plague, demanding his attention and enraging him. They felt like memories, but he could not place them on any timeline or give them any reason. He tried to write them off as nothing more than nightmares, but the Nightmare King himself could not fall victim to his own strength. If he gave close thought to it, even though the images that pretended to be memories sent him into fits of anger and discomfort, they weren't exactly bad. In fact, they were rather nice. Which would make them dreams. Pleasant dreams.

Smooth brows cinched together and lowered over a long, sharp nose, now flared in anger. A well-practiced snarl tore through Pitch's throat, deepening the creases of his face and making him appear as some form of horrific demon. He stalked from one of the many off-kilter bridges littering his home and into the black abyss below, the faintest breeze whispering in his absence. Pale nails bit at the flesh of his palms as he travelled swiftly through the dark.

When he emerged from a rare shaded corner in the ever-changing palace that belonged to Sanderson Mansnoozie, the sun had just slipped below the horizon, draining the cadet sky to black. The owner of the fortress would likely be out for many hours still, watching over the precious children in the immediate area (Gothenburg, Sweden, as it turned out). Pitch took the opportunity to acquaint himself with the room he had arrived in. It seemed to be some sort of sitting room, with a few tables and chairs scattered about in random fashion, an empty elaborate fireplace, and no discernable exit or entrance.

Pitch swallowed the violent anger that twisted his lips and made his hands shake. One aforementioned skeletal hand ran over a rough wall, its dark ashen skin in stark contrast with the golden surface. He seemed a smudge of charcoal upon an eggshell in this room, and he found it rather pleasing. That was how he should have appeared. He smirked to himself and approached one of the several full bookshelves that lined the walls, selecting a volume at random. Thin shrouded feet carried him to a short armchair, and he sunk into the plush cushions as if he owned them. The shade flipped the book open and made himself comfortable, a soft darkness falling upon the sand around him, dulling its normal polished lustre to a tarnished bronze.

He chuckled quietly and waited.


	5. He Is Wrong

**[Author's Notes:** This one's a bit longer to make up for how short the last one was. :)  
_TheeMaddHattter_ and I decided to co-write her fourth chapter, and retell the same scene in my fifth.  
As always, I sincerely hope you enjoy it~ Feel free to leave a review if you did. ^ ^**]**

* * *

A small ornate door materialized in the wall opposite Pitch's position by the hearth. The corners of his lips pulled into a ghastly smirk and his returned his attention to the book in his lap.

The man of the house appeared in the doorway, a concerned and weary look contorting his usually smiling face. He seemed to be searching for a source of alarm, his tired eyes passing right over the Boogeyman on the first pass. With the second, they locked onto him. Pitch flicked his gaze from the soft pages and up to the little man, a deep satisfaction settling in his chest. The Sandman looked hurt; burned to the core; broken. That's what he wanted; to make that cheerful little sprite feel his own torment. He watched disinterestedly as Sandy approached him, conjuring a more appropriate chair up from the floor. Small hands motioned to the new furniture, and he snapped the book shut before complying.

"Forever the gentleman, Sanderson." His gibe was met with a curt nod and a nonchalant shrug. The smaller man took back the armchair and sent him a quizzical look, a small question mark forming above his head.

Now _that_ was rich. Sandy _didn't know_ why he was there? The Nightmare King shook his head slightly and grinned, his voice sickeningly sweet. "Oh, I think you know exactly why I'm here. I believe you paid me a small stop a few days ago."

The Sandman glanced away, a weight holding his shoulders down. A guilty look if Pitch had ever seen one. He was cordially offered a cup of tea, and dared not refuse. He would play the little man's game against him. When those amber eyes met his once more, a soft determination shimmered in their depths. He tossed more sand figures into the air, explaining himself like a parent to a child. Pitch propped his chin on one hand, bored and slightly insulted by the careful pace of the excuse. He could read the pictographs just fine and didn't need the basics. His free hand moved in an impatient circle, urging Sandy along. He made his point, and the full tale began to unfold.

Apparently, there had been a light that had alerted his opposite to a change on a special globe (one that told him of the unconscious states of spirits around the world); he had fallen asleep. _Strange,_ he thought, _that Sanderson should be interested in my sleeping habits. _The younger continued, explaining that he had hurried to spy into his dream and never said a word about what he had witnessed to the Guardians.

When the sand finally settled, its master fixed him with a fearful frown. Pitch narrowed his eyes slightly. Did he really think he could fool the Boogeyman just like that? Did he really think he was that naïve? He blinked and raised a brow in disbelief. "You're telling me that you did nothing to tamper with my subconscious? That you didn't throw that girl into my dreams?" He brought the small cup to his lips once more, letting the muted flavours mingle on his tongue. This nuisance needed to understand that he wasn't playing. "You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?" he asked, voice quiet and dangerous.

A sort of panic filled Sandy's expression. He tossed his teacup over one shoulder, letting it disintegrate. He put his hands to his head, massaging his temples and looking distressed. When he finally met Pitch's dark gaze, a wild desperation played in his own. A desperation Pitch knew well. _A desperation to be believed._ The grainy pictures flashed above his head, telling the Nightmare King that he hadn't touched his dream at all. He hadn't added anything. There was a pause, and then those frantic eyes again. He had added butterflies.

Pitch didn't want to consider it. Sanderson was obviously in the wrong. He had put false memories in his head, nothing more. But there was something about those fearful copper eyes; not a fear of the Boogeyman or of punishment, but of not being believed. He could not say no to eyes like that. He nodded briefly and fought to find a reply. All he could manage was a strangled, "Alright."

Sanderson seemed to breath a silent sigh of relief. He shot Pitch a questioning glance, his symbols elaborating that he wanted to ask about his dream. His breath caught in his throat and he tensed. His subconscious was not a thing to be discussed at all, particularly not with a foe. He frowned and lowered his brows. He wanted to say no- "If you must."

There was a moment where the Sandman stayed motionless, face hesitant. A few images shot into the air, asking if the shade knew who the young girl was. _Of course. _Hadn't he been trying to remember her for days? She was so familiar yet so foreign at the same time. He heaved an angry sigh and muttered, "No." He glared down at the golden grains that made up the floor. He wanted to remember. It seemed that no matter how he approached it, though, she was just a nameless face.

The anger of that realization turned on his surroundings. What was he doing here, telling his enemy about his thoughts and dreams? When did revenge turn into therapy? Pitch stood quickly and hissed. "I shouldn't even have come." He rounded on the small man, bringing his face down mere millimeters away from the other's. This would not happen again if he had anything to do with it. "You will stay out of my business and my head from now on. No exceptions." He then spun on his heel and left through the shadows, leaving the Sandman and his castle far behind.


	6. He Loses Himself

**[Author's Notes:** It seems I've gone back to writing short chapters. /: Many apologies for that. For both this and _TheeMaddHattter_'s story, there will likely be some headcanons introduced. Hopefully that doesn't cause any problems for you guys, but if it does, feel free to kindly let us know.  
All right. :) As always, I hope you all enjoy! Drop a review if you did!**]**

* * *

The shadows melted away and the familiar moist, stagnant air of his home replaced the warm atmosphere of Sanderson's castle. He was fuming, absolutely furious. How could he have let his guard down? Especially to the one spirit who could deal him the most damage? The whole idea sent him pacing again, along the bridges and shadows. He finally came to a stop before the skeletal globe perched at the lair's center, awash in moonlight.

It was very early morning; the stars still glittered high above the fracture over his head. The lights on the globe mimicked their numbers, the small gold pinpricks glowing in defiance of the Nightmare King's rage. A shining army out to extinguish terror.

Pitch bowed his head. He didn't want to see them; the little golden lights. They brought back the fearful uncertainty that made his stomach flip and his eyes sting. Just like the butterflies. Just like the little girl. Just like the "Koz". He was sick of it all. He didn't want to know. The incessant tearing at the far reaches of his mind was driving him mad. A dark growl formed deep in his throat, creasing his brow and pulling his lips back.

The roaring of his thoughts, the anger and confusion, came to a sudden screeching halt. In that moment of deafening silence, a soft lilting voice called from the darkest recesses of his head. That familiar call of "Daddy".

As the echoes of that single word faded away, they were replaced by a hysterical shrieking, screams of pure torturous agony. Pitch idly wondered where such horrified howls could have originated. They didn't sound at all familiar, even less so than the phantom "Daddy". Only when he brought his attention back to his surroundings and heard the sound amplified by the stony walls did he realize that the wails were coming from _him._ His lungs burned with exertion and he forced himself to breathe, the cries dying on his tongue as he gasped for air.

He had somehow fallen to his knees before the globe in his fit, and now took the moment to watch his hands; illuminated by the moon and clawing at the rock beneath them. His mind was reeling, pounding with the need for oxygen. The world was doubling and spinning, and the Boogeyman had to clamp his eyes shut and focus on the blood rushing in his ears. His arms felt weak as he pushed himself into an upright position, and he fought to keep his knees from buckling while he stumbled to the nearest wall. He gingerly pressed his back to its surface and slid to the floor, resting his head against the cool stone. His thin chest rose and fell, his breath mingling with the already thick air of the cavern. He just needed sleep, that was all. Disregard the dreams that would ensue, and take a break from the world around him.

But how could he possibly do that after his confrontation with the Sandman? Just let himself drift off and leave his mind wide open for his opposite to study and tamper with? That wouldn't do. He would stay conscious, ignore the frayed edges of his sanity and push away the dead weight that held his limbs down.

His eyes fluttered open, their usually bright irises dulled and clouded with exhaustion, and wandered back to his window to the world above. Those silver specks, hundreds upon thousands of them, stared down as the unbreakable Pitch Black crumbled further in his tomb.


	7. He Hears The Drums

**[Author's Notes: **This one takes place a bit after the last one. If you're at all confused about the events that took place between here and Chapter 6, please check the fifth chapter of _TheeMaddHattter_'s story, Life Can Start Anew. Even if you aren't confused, you should go read her story. It's perfectly lovely. :)  
Alright darlings. I hope you all enjoy this one. ^ ^ Leave a review, if it strikes your fancy.**]**

* * *

Pitch welcomed the darkness. He was a part of it and it was a part of him, as oxygen was a part of water. He didn't question the endless void as he walked through it; he felt at home. Nowhere, not even in his caverns, was there such pure black. It was comforting and terrifying all at the same time, and he heaved a sigh of relief. It was dark and quiet, and he was content.

An echo of sorts broke through the thick silence. A far off victory cry, the song of metal against metal, the deep thunder of hooves and war drums that shook beneath his ribcage. They faded in and out, and set the Nightmare King's blood on fire. It was a sick melody that both thrilled and angered him. He was the hunter and the hunted. The general and the swarm.

His pulse picked up at the thought. Both seemed accurate. Both seemed wrong. It was a legitimate war between him and himself, and he could do nothing to stop it. Through the abyss came a faint golden glow, like a sunrise over an unseen horizon. It promised peace and pain; harmony and prison. He wanted to see it and he wanted to destroy it.

He turned away, and sprinted into the receding darkness. He was afraid of what that light held, be it success or failure. He didn't want it. Something told him that he would grieve for either one, and he wasn't ready to suffer for the unknown. He didn't want the pain that came with the little girl, with the "Koz", with the stars, with the drums.

As the brightness dimmed and vanished, the Boogeyman slowed to a stop. All noise had ceased and he was safely lost again. No screams or drums or whispers or sea green eyes. No wild curls of ebon hair. No tiny hands clutching at his fingers.

A soft metallic clatter brought Pitch back to reality. A cool draft wafted in from the fracture in the ceiling, bringing in the faint scent of the autumn world above. He was sitting in one of the darkest corners of his home, curled in on himself. Dull palladium eyes shot about the surroundings, searching for the source of the noise. He saw nothing. He brought his feet under him, joints popping as he removed himself from the cramped position and stood.

Another crash against the stone brought his attention to the spot he had just vacated. There, gleaming against the dark surface, was a necklace. Apprehensively, he bent to pick it up, hand shaking slightly as he reached for the length of chain. He held the object up for observation, holding it out a foot in front of him, as if the worn golden pendant would sear his flesh were he to touch it. It was an ornate locket, by the looks of things, its design rubbed smooth in places from years of worry. It was his, he knew, but he dared not open it. He feared its contents and what they would undoubtedly bring; memories. Memories were not things he wish for. In fact, he wished to be rid of them. He didn't want the longing and pain that they brought.

Ashen lips twisted in a grimace and their owner shook his head woefully. As much as he wanted the siege in his mind to cease, there was something keeping him from throwing the locket; hurling it into the depths of the cave to be lost and forgotten.

He returned the jewelry to its home in the shadows of his robe, both hating and craving the sensation of the engravings against his bare skin, before vanishing into one of his many tunnels to brood.


	8. He Waits For Revenge

**[Author's Notes: **A thousand apologies for my/our absence! School has started up again, and stolen my "life". /: This chapter's rather short, I know, but it's more of a filler than anything else. :) I promise the next chapter (which we will begin on shortly) will be much longer and much more interesting. ^ ^  
As always, please check out _TheeMaddHattter_'s Life Can Start Anew for Sandy's half of the plot, and give the author some love. She's fab.  
Thank you all again, and I hope you enjoy this brief update.**]**

* * *

The Nightmare King spent many hours pacing the winding tunnels that linked his home to various destinations. He was overthinking the entire situation again. He had fallen asleep while trying to stay conscious. He had dreamt while trying to clear his head. He had formed more questions while trying to answer the old ones. Everything felt so familiar and yet so foreign.

When the sun finally slipped away and the sky faded to black, Pitch returned to the main cavern. Even in the dim moonlight, his eyes ached from the reflection on the cages. They adjusted slowly, and he released a tired sigh. He was getting nowhere. He had no answers, and more anxieties. He was back at the starting point, walking in circles and fearing sleep. Fear. He was, once again, falling victim to himself.

He was pulled from his cycle of self-recrimination by a faint glimmer on the bridge he was stalking. It looked to be gold, and the image of the worn locket came to mind. He didn't need another keepsake from his past, whatever it may have been. Regardless, the Boogeyman slowly approached it, stopping dead in his tracks when it came into focus.

It was a small golden pouch, open slightly as if it had been abandoned in a hurry. Pitch's ashen features narrowed and darkened as he kneeled to retrieve it. The sensation of its silken fibers against his fingertips brought no memories to mind, no clenching or jolting of organs, no unexplained dampening of the eyes. He poured a fraction of its contents into his palm and studied them. It was a fine platinum dust, lightly graced with a lavender fragrance. He stared down at the shimmering grains, a fire coming to a boil in his core. Sleeping powder.

The contempt for Sanderson Mansnoozie he had dismissed came rushing back in that instant. He had _come back. _He had intruded _again_. He had snuck into his home (although something in him now called it a prison) and put him to sleep. That little dream spirit had gone against his _orders_ and tampered with his affairs.

The shade grit his teeth and suppressed a roar of fury, broad shoulders quivering slightly. His fingers clenched around the satchel, knuckles white and tendons taut. If it was a war the Sandman wanted, it was a war he would get. He spun on his heel and called a scythe to his free hand before vanishing into the shadows.

* * *

He found himself in the exitless sitting room once again. The hearth was cold and lifeless, the armchair was empty, and all was quiet. A growl rumbled in his chest and he began pacing. He would have to wait, let his fury simmer, heighten his hatred for his opposite. The Boogeyman lapped the room several times, his strides quick and tense. He tapped impatiently along the shaft of the weapon propped against his shoulder. Sanderson would fall to him once more, and he could already taste the laughter on his lips.


	9. He Sees The Truth

**[Author's Notes: **Aaaaand here's the next one! I hope it makes up for the terrible filler...thing...I uploaded yesterday. /: Sorry again for that. This one parallels chapter 7 of _TheeMaddHattter_'s Life Can Start Anew. :3 You should go read it, if you haven't already.  
Thank you all again for following this story. ^ ^ It means a lot.  
Enjoy!**]**

* * *

An hour had passed, and Pitch had circled the room too many times to count. The soft gold that made up every inch of the space had been darkened, past tarnished, and shifted slightly with the Nightmare King's rage. He couldn't fully control the dream sand in his weakened state, but the hint of possession was good enough.

He was about to start another lap when the small double doors appeared in the wall before him. He turned to face them, posture perfect save for the predatory dip of his neck. The pouch was securely strangled in his fingers, and he stared down the small sliver of light the seeped in as the doors were pushed open.

By the tense, anxious expression on Sanderson's face, the shade assumed he had been expecting him. The dream spirit slowly looked up from the floor, finally locking eyes with him. Had he been in a better mood, Pitch would have laughed at the tremble in those small shoulders. As it was, however, he only narrowed his gaze and lifted the satchel. "I believe this is yours."

He watched disinterestedly as the shorter of the two slowly took the evidence, checked the contents, and tossed it into the fireplace that had suddenly come to life. The Sandman's gentle tawny eyes moved back to his face, but avoided his glare. Apprehensive symbols formed above his head, hinting, "I don't know what to tell you."

Now that was priceless. He'd come into his home, put him in a place of vulnerability, and had nothing to say for it? He wanted to laugh and yell at the same time. Did that little spirit think he was joking? That he wasn't here to settle a score? The longer he considered it, the more his blood boiled. He fought to keep his voice steady, though his face had twisted into something rabid. "I told you to leave me be, Sanderson."

The urgency in the smaller man's nods and signalled "You did. I wanted almost as much as you did, to understand," served to only heighten the shade's sadism. He wanted to see Sanderson Mansnoozie broken. What he most certainly didn't want was for the offensive Guardian to look sorrowfully at his hands and tack on a brief, "I'm sorry."

No. That was unacceptable. That man, that little nuisance with the strength of a thousand men could not simply apologize and offer his enemy his neck. There had to be a fight. There had to be honour. Petty surrender was not an option.

He reached back and took hold of his scythe, growling as he pulled it forth and readied it. He wasn't holding back now, and the words he spat at his opposite were ragged and dripping with hatred. "It is not your _place_ to understand. My personal matters are none of your business." How could he even _think_ that he would be allowed into Pitch Black's private issues? Regardless of the sleepless nights; the internal battlefield; the burnt edges of his sanity, there was no way in Heaven or Hell ("_or the Stars_," he told himself) that he would accept his enemy's _therapy._

And the spirit had the nerve to look up at him, wide eyes brimmed with fear. He didn't call his whips to his hands or attack in any sense. He just stared up at The Nightmare King with fear and sadness and pity coating his round face. His pictographs were slow and precise. "I know. I apologize."

He couldn't harm him. He was unarmed. It didn't matter how much he wanted to tear that little body limb from limb; wanted to feel his blade bury itself in that chest; wanted to watch those eyes go dark. He stared into those bronze pools and his breath caught in his throat. Perhaps it wasn't a bad idea. Perhaps he did need assistance. Perhaps The Sandman could help him put the unanswered questions to rest and discover who he was. Who the little girl was. Who the "Koz" was. Why he felt wrong in his skin.

That was a ridiculous notion, though. There was no way he could stoop so low as to ask his tormentors for aid. He was The Nightmare King, and he would not go so far as to offer himself, broken and unstable, to the very people who had made him that way. He adjusted his grip on the scythe, flexing his fingers around the shaft. He was done playing around. Sanderson needed to know that he was _not_ bluffing.

In less than a second, he had the weapon in the air, all of his force behind it with intent to kill. With a practiced arm, he brought it down, aiming for the figure before him. In the very last instant, he shifted slightly and sunk it into the floor at Sandy's feet. He was breathing hard. His mind was racing. He forced out a broken whisper. "I don't want your help."

Sanderson's face had gone pale, and his chest rose and fell with just as much effort as Pitch's. Their eyes locked again before the dream spirit fell to his knees.

They stayed like that for many moments, silent and shaken. The smaller met his gaze once more, and tentatively commented. "Wanting help and needing help are two very different things."

There it was. The truth of the whole situation. Pitch could avoid and refuse help as much as he damn well pleased, and it wouldn't change the facts. The facts that he _needed _help and that Sandy was offering. It was hopeful and infuriating and absolutely horrifying. He wanted to know, but he was afraid of what he would find. And Sandy was the only one who could help him find it.

He tried his best to snarl, to grit his teeth and hiss, but it felt like an expression of angry disorientation. "And what makes you think that I would trust _you_, of all people?"

The Sandman held up his tiny hands, palms turned outwards. He had sat back and his face was set in apathy. The sand moved sluggishly, but expressed its meaning nonetheless. "Nothing at all."


	10. He Gives In

**[Author's Notes: **Hello, dear readers! I must apologise (yet again) for our two week absence. :c _TheeMaddHattter_ was in the process of moving, and a convention came up. Now that that has all passed, though, we should be able to update once a week again!  
Hopefully, this longer chapter will make up for something. ^ ^;  
I hope you enjoy! Feel free to drop a review if you did!**]**

* * *

Pitch Black was at a loss for words. It was a thing that was most unusual for him.

_Nothing at all. _A part of him had wished that Sanderson had something to offer him; some word of consolation or comfort. Instead he'd been given _that._

He could do nothing more than stare into those soft brown eyes and search for an answer. Anything. Something telling him that he was alright and that people were trying for him. There was nothing.

He wanted to yell, scream, plead, beg for some sort of reassurance, and that fact in it of itself sent his mind into a dark fury. How had he come to this? He grit his teeth and turned away. He had no business with the dream spirit. Not now. Not ever.

As he approached the darkness, the sand flashed a glaring gold, effectively erasing all shadows and searing the shade's pale eyes. It was excruciating and foreign and Pitch had to clap a hand over his vision to make it stop. There had to be darkness, a dim corner, _something_ he could hide himself in. _Stars,_ it burned. Everywhere he turned, there was nothing but blinding light and it made him panic.

The Boogeyman felt trapped and threatened, and he could feel his heart racing in his throat, and his muscles were tense and twitching with the urge to run, go, get as far away as possible from the golden sitting room and the little man it belonged to. An attempt only brought him to a blank, gritty wall, and he threw self control to the wind, clawing and pounding at the sand with his fists. A desperate shriek pushed past the tightness in his chest. "SANDERSON, STOP THIS INSTANT. LET ME OUT."

He didn't feel the sand start to fall under his actions, couldn't see the wall dissipate, until he stumbled into the small room behind it. It registered as soon as he fell through, and he turned as soon as it did. Through the white haze that had become his eyesight, he caught the wall building itself back up, enclosing him in a small, bare room. It hurt. He was angry, confused, blind, and in pain. He could feel his knees shaking, weak with rage and exhaustion. The shade raised an thin hand, dark against the glare, and groped along the closest wall until he found a corner. He shoved his back to the sand, and let his knees give out, hanging his head between them once he hit the floor. His muscles tried to relax, spasming with residual adrenaline. His mind was racing a mile a minute and everything felt weak; unstable. He shut his eyes, tried to block out the light, and dug his fingertips into his shins. _The Nightmare King._ Yes, _this_ was most definitely a position for a king, curled up and cowering in a corner. Shameful, that's what it was.

Something tapped the side of his foot. It took effort, but he pulled his head up and squinted at the intrusion. Sanderson's goggles, the glass made with much darker sand than usual. As mad as he was with the small man, he had to give him some credit for hospitality.

Tentatively, he extended a shaking hand toward the eyewear. He shot a quiet hiss at his captor before pulling them on. They felt ridiculous, but they seemed to help. He certainly wasn't about to complain.

When definition and hue returned to his sight, The Boogeyman took in his surroundings. The room was still shifting, by the looks of things; the walls pushing away from him and producing a large bookshelf. Funny, how he could influence sand that wasn't even his. There was a window in the wall opposite him that Sanderson had been watching him from. When he left, albeit brief, Pitch pulled himself from the floor and approached the shelf. There was only one that had fully developed, so the decision making was simple.

As he settled back into his corner, a cup of tea showed up beside him and the dream spirit reappeared in the window. He sent his observer a welcoming glare and inspected the liquid. It looked perfectly unassuming, and smelled pleasant enough, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was tainted in some fashion. Probably with sleeping powder. So it would stay untouched. That was that.

The book he had picked up was one he couldn't remember reading before. It was a long and eloquently worded children's tale, about a valiant knight that fought through an army of horrors to save his princess. He felt as though he could recite it, like he could predict the words before he read them. It took him half of the story to realize the foreign nature of the script it was written in. It was unearthly; the elegant loops and embellishments were like nothing he had read in his life on the planet, yet he had no trouble reading it. His memory offered no name for the language, and if he concentrated too hard, he couldn't understand a single word. It was...troubling.

Hours passed, and he read through another two books. Same language, same knight, same princess. The tea had gone away and come back, fresh and warm. A glass wardrobe had emerged from one of the walls, intricate detailing etched along its surface. Inside sat a suit of polished golden armour. Fine carvings graced the metal like miniature ivy. It was sleek and fitted, and held the occasional battle scar. It set the shade on edge. He opted to fold himself into the chair that had grown from the floor, its back turned to the beautiful metalwork. A small table rose beside him, bringing the tea with it.

The Nightmare King, caged and humiliated, was beyond exhausted. The whole ordeal had taken its toll on him, and his body begged for rest. He glanced down at the beverage and scowled before picking it up. To Hell with the consequences, he needed the sleep.

He shot one last glare in Sanderson's direction before tossing back the drink. It was warm and comforting and settled his nerves. He put the mug back and pulled his knees in, sighing in defeat as his eyes finally slipped shut.


	11. He Falls Into Panic

**[Author's****Notes:** I'm back, friends! I think every other week will be the normal update time from now on. School's being murderous.  
This chapter is...very headcanon heavy. I apologise to anyone who has issues with that.  
Regardless, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and we should be back soon enough!  
Thank you, as always, for the reviews and follows and favourites!**]**

* * *

He welcomed the darkness. After the blinding glare of Sanderson's castle, even the inky blackness of his own dreamscape seemed comforting.

It was dark, and he was safe, and all would be alright. _All will be alright._

The images came in flashes, racing across his mind as a river after the break of winter.

_A young nurse, dressed as all others that served the Lunanoffs. She was tall and soft, hair pulled up into a loose bun. He had suffered a deep wound, and was in her care until he could return to battle. She was so kind, so gentle, her hands delicate and warm. And she had uttered to him, as those soft and gentle hands treated his damaged flesh, "All will be alright."_

_The war had fallen into lull, and he was planetside. The hills and the trees and the grass and the flowers were what he had been raised in, and it was his home. It was in those hills that he met her again, the navy and crimson and gold and black canvas uniform replaced by a deep sapphire silken gown. Her smile was entrancing, shy and genuine. Her eyes were twin to the clear autumn sky, large and heavily lashed. The evening wind caught her burgundy curls, and the setting sun lit fire to them. She was the epitome of beauty, and he knew in that instant that he would marry her. She touched his chest and whispered, "All will be alright."_

_Her name was Aeona, and she had a laugh as sweet as honey. It would light up her eyes and add colour to her snowy complexion. He loved her laugh and her eyes and her skin. He loved her turned up nose, as straight bridged as his own. He loved the sparse freckles that traced her cheekbones. He loved her arched scarlet brows and her soft cupid's bow lips. He loved her strong waist and even stronger legs, and the smooth curves that connected them all. He loved all of her, inside and out, and they were wed on a warm day in the middle of spring. As they laced their fingers, newly adorned with golden bands, she said to him, "All will be alright."_

_The fearlings returned, and he was deployed once again. Now a general to the Tsar and Tsarina, he led an army to the skies. His beautiful wife stayed behind, now with child, and he thought of her every day, week, and month that he sailed through the black. The enemy was strong, but the army was stronger. Though they suffered many casualties, the threat did fall. They were caged and locked away on a barren planet, and he finally retired from active service. Aeona was close to date and glowed with a vibrancy he had never seen. He was worried for her, as any good husband would be, but she took his hand and kissed his lips and told him, "All will be alright."_

_He held her hand through the pain, chest clenched in fear and excitement. Even in all her agony, she was a spectacle. There was nothing about her that he could dislike. After what felt like an eternity, all fell silent, save for the quiet cries of their newborn daughter, drifting from the nursery a room away. Everything, for one blissful moment, was right. And then, as if on some sort of cue, Aeona's breathing caught in her throat, and a soft light traced her body. He had seen it before, with his parents, and their parents before them; the crossing from mortal to star. It couldn't. She couldn't. Not now. Not so soon after coming into his life. Not after allowing their child to see the light of day. Not when all else had fallen into place. She couldn't simply leave him behind, in what should have been the joyous future of the Golden Age. He held her hands, pleading, begging for her not to go, for her to stay and help bring up their daughter. She only smiled, her icy eyes soft and tired, before swearing a final, "All will be alright."_

_It was shameful, how wrong she was._

Pitch woke with a start, heart furiously slamming against his ribs. Who had she been? A figment of his imagination? The brightness of his surroundings came back into focus and his gasps picked up pace.

He needed to get out. He needed to bury himself in shadow, deep beneath the earth's surface. He needed to lose himself in the mortal fear he ruled and forget his own. He needed to forget these names and places and dreams that could have been memories.

The hammering in his ears finally registered as not only his heart, but also his fists, pounding at the window behind which Sanderson was perched. He was on autopilot.

The glass cracked.


End file.
